Constant
by RayneSummer
Summary: They didn't have that many constants in their lives. But as Dean reflects on the ones that they do have during a hunt, he knows they have enough.


**So I wrote this whole story down on paper yesterday while away from the laptop for a day.**

**I've been reading fanfictions for the past three days, trying to write one, and I finally did!**

**Sorry for the wait, and also this will probably be my last for a few weeks because I'm busy for the next month.**

**Thank you for reading, please review!**

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They had constants.

Actually, they had quite a few, Dean mused as he dug into the grave of a recently dead bully that was so mean he apparently needed re-killing in the afterlife too.

Salt and burn - that was one. No matter how many job they took, the general getting rid of ghosts was always there, one way or another. It was a usual procedure for every hunter.

The salt gun. That was another constant; no matter what kind of job, they always used it. Most things that hide in the dark have a salt weakness, and if they didn't, then it slowed the monster down at least.

Dean glanced up as the air around grew cold, signalling the arrival of the spirit. He met the uneasy glance of his brother, standing above him, on guard with said gun.

Their breath smoked in the suddenly chilled air as the ghost got ready to come out at them, as usual pissed off by someone attempting to desecrate the grave. Yet another constant.

After hesitating a minute, Dean returned to the task of digging up the bones. The sooner this was done, the sooner they could get the hell out of there, preferably without injury.

They hardly ever happened.

A blast from the shotgun above made him jerk his gaze up, checking his brother had got the avenging ghost with the repellent. Trust was a constant, too. Always trust your partner, or neither of you may make it out alive. Sam caught his eyes and nodded once, confirming it was gone for now.

Blowing out a breath, the elder brother quickly returned to the task on hand. He finished digging up the bones and boosted himself up and out of the grave. He reached down to pry the lid of the new coffin off the corpse to burn it.

Grabbing the salt and lighter fluid, he poured both simultaneously onto the skeleton below, then tossed the bottles away and pulled his lighter out of his pocket. He had ensured before the hunt that it was juiced; more constants.

He was about to flick it when he felt the tell tale cold chill of a ghost behind him. Dean barely had time to blurt out "Sam, burn it!" before he was picked up and thrown through the air like a weightless doll.

Luckily - now that definitely was not a constant, in any hunter's lives - he wasn't thrown too hard or too far, as the spirit had already turned its attention to the other threat. Dean quickly rolled to his feet, just bruised.

And just in time to see his brother also thrown. Sam was exactly the opposite; completely unlucky in his fall.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled as the younger Winchester crashed into a gravestone on the other side of the graveyard, cracking the stone but worryingly staying limp on the ground where he had fallen.

A definite constant. Loose track of Sam, call his name. If he can answer or not. But if he can't, or doesn't, then big brother's worry and protective meters immediately shoot up, just like on this hunt.

With an inner monologue of _'crap crap crap'_, Dean quickly moved to grab the fallen lighter next to the grave, and in one swift moment flicked it and dropped it on the bones. With a distant scream, the spirit that had turned back to him burned up, disappearing.

The threat eliminated, Dean's attention immediately focused on Sam. Another, never ending, constant.

He hurried over to his little brother, slumped by the grave that had stopped him, calling softly, "Sam? Sammy?" with concern evident in his voice even as he try to keep it lowered.

Sam didn't move, leaving Dean's worry to go up a notch further as he dropped to his knees beside his fallen sibling, assessing the situation and what to do.

Quickly, he felt the back of Sam's head for where he had bashed it against the rock. Or, rather, where the damn tombstone had attempted to bash his head in.

Check over straight after an accident was another constant. Make sure your brother is alive, then fix him from whatever happened, physically or emotionally, take it days or weeks.

Because, don't lose your brother again. Oh, God, not again.

Wet blood matter Sam's too long hair at the back, but head wounds always bleed a lot, so Dean tried - unsuccessfully - not to worry too much than he already was.

Soon, his fingers located a small cut and slight dent where the stone had impacted his brother's head, and lost, seeing as it had a bigger crack than Sam did, Dean noticed satisfactorily.

Breathing out a sigh of relief at the minor injury - this was something he could fix, and quickly - Dean then turned his attention to waking Sam up into the pain.

Nowadays, carrying an unconscious 6"4' of sasquatch to the car was quite a workout. Plus, it was always better, and recommended, to be awake with a head injury.

Waking Sam up - another constant. Whether from a nightmare or unconsciousness, it always seemed quite hard and therefore rather worrying for the usually already worrying big brother.

Gently, Dean put a hand on his brother's cheek, checking his temperature briefly. Just in case.

Satisfied Sam would soon recover once they got out of this place, he carefully jostled the younger Winchester's head, trying to bring him around to at least walk to the car.

"Sam? Hey, Sammy, c'mon. Wake up, we gotta playdate at Bobby's after this to get to," he chanted softly. Of course they were going to go to their surrogate father's to recover.

Sam reacted eventually, screwing up his eyes and groaning quietly as he woke up to pain, unfortunately. Dean was sympathetic; he knew what it was like.

He sighed, relieved, as he threaded his fingers through the kid's long and now stained hair, and ordered, "open your eyes, Sam. Hey. Look at me." Because your brother is your whole world, nothing else matters when he has you.

Both Winchesters were raised to follow orders, so a demand was usually obeyed, no matter what it was. Orders - again, a constant, ever since they were little with their father.

After a moment, Sam did obey, obediently slitting open his eyes to find his big brother's usual encouraging smile, but with massive hidden concern behind it.

Grimacing, Sam squeezed his eyes shut again before taking a deep breath and moving to sit up. As usual, Dean immediately helped him, supporting his back as he got his bearing back after being smacked in the head.

Thankfully, Sam soon remembered what had happened, meaning the head injury wasn't that bad and probably not a concussion, and struggled to gain his feet.

Muttering, "careful, take it easy," Dean pulled him up and waited until he was at least halfway steady before going to grab their bag of tools they brought for the job, leaving Sam leaning on the same gravestone that had knocked him out.

Dean quickly went back to Sam's side, prompting, "talk to me, Sammy. We need a hospital?" Despite their usual drill of avoiding hospitals as much as possible, head injuries were one thing that must never be messed around with. If a hospital was necessary, then it was necessary.

After a moment of thought, gauging his pain, Sam shook his head, sighing, "just a shower and another knockout."

Dean smirked at the typical Winchester attitude, and took hold of his little brother's arm with his free hand to steady him as they made their way back to the car, parked - lovingly by Dean - just outside the cemetery, close to her boys.

More constants. The Impala. Helping his brother home. Whoever was in each role.

Back at the car, Dean put Sam in the passenger seat, then crouched down beside him on the concrete, double checking. Sam may not think he did, but if Dean thought he needed a hospital, then they were going.

His eyes were equal and reactive, to Dean's relief, meaning thankfully no concussion; just a headache for a day or two. This was something he could easily fix.

"Anywhere else really hurt, except for your head?" he checked, just in case. Sam shook his head and closed his eyes, meaning the pain was getting worse and something needed to be done.

He sighed and murmured, "just need to sleep." Dean nodded and stood up, shutting the car door, dumping their stuff in the trunk before getting in the driver's side and glancing at Sam.

The kid nodded at him weakly, eyes slits again, conveying that he was alright and ready to move, as he knew Dean wouldn't go anywhere until he said so.

So the big brother could pull out, the sleek blackness of the car, purring to life as she took them to safety, her job in the hunt, and one she did fantastically well.

The Impala; a firm constant. Always there, always helping. They couldn't do it without her. She really was a member of the Winchesters, all the years she had been in their service.

Dean drove quickly, heading for their surrogate father's house, only about half an hour away. He glanced at Sam frequently, as usual, worried. The young hunter was still in pain, but bearing it for now.

Soon, the engine was cut off as they drew up in 'Singer's Salvage Yard', outside the house. Everything suddenly silent, dean glanced at his little brother yet again.

"Hey." He waited until Sam looked up at him before continuing, "you ready to get cleaned and doped up so you can sleep?" The usual procedure after any injury.

The kid nodded, eyeing and recognising the surroundings outside the car. The Winchester simultaneously exited the vehicle, Dean waiting for Sam to walk around the car to join him.

They walked up to Bobby's front door, effortlessly mirroring each other's movements without trying. It opened before they could knock, the only occupant of the house narrowing his eyes at the two boys warily.

"What've you two been wrestlin' with this time?" he grumbled, leading the way into the hallway before turning on the Winchesters. He hadn't gone years with looking out for them for nothing.

"Spirit gave Sam a free head round with a gravestone," Dean answered non-committally.

"Uh-huh." Bobby glanced at the taller brother with a practiced eye. He didn't miss the way the boy winced in pain or swayed ever so slightly on the spot.

He glanced back at the older brother, deciding to humor him. "Who won?"

Dean smirked, replying, "are you kidding me? His skull's so freakishly hard it cracked that rock!"

Bobby almost smiled. "Uh-huh," he repeated, glancing at Sam again. "Go get cleaned up, kid," he told him gently. The residents of Sioux Falls would be amazed to see how lovingly he treated his boys.

Sam nodded tiredly and started trudging up the stairs as Dean added, "I'll be up in a minute; save your dignity and don't pass out in the shower." Even if the world was ending - and it was, a few times - Dean would always try to make his little brother smile.

The usual bitchface he recieved in return from his comment was another constant, and it meant that Sam would be absolutely fine. Dean grinned back, pleased and relieved, though he hid it.

In the five minutes that it took Sam to shower, washing the blood out of his still too long hair and rubbing his aches down, Dean related the hunt to Bobby's who listened without a word.

When he had finished, Bobby simply nodded and glanced upstairs briefly as the sound of the shower cut off. "Get your ass up there and check on your brother, then I want you both down here," he ordered.

Dean nodded and took off up the stairs while Bobby went into the kitchen, to his phone. He had to get someone to take over the last bit of the Winchester's job.

The phones. Another constant. Always there, and always needed.

Muttering to himself about worrying too much about idjits who make his worry too much about them, Bobby rang up another hunter close by, semi retired, who promised to check out the town and make sure the case was over.

His job done, Bobby sighed as he put the phone down and listened briefly to the brothers upstairs, talking lowly, helping each other, as usual. As if should be. Another constant.

He sat down as he waited for the those boys to come and talk to him. His boys, no more or less. A smile twitched at his mouth as he thoughts about them.

For now, they were home, and they were okay. That was not a constant, but damn, Bobby was grateful when it happened. He did know at least one thing, however - he was their constant. And that, that was worth all the bad luck from everything else. Just to be there, constantly, at the end of it, whether a hunt or the whole world. And that was what constant meant to the Winchesters. It meant family. And that meant the world.


End file.
